


Muted memories

by kiki_92



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I guess? It's not really angsty tho, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Temporary Amnesia, no beta we die like (wo)men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 13:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21055478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiki_92/pseuds/kiki_92
Summary: An accident during training has some unexpected consequences for Mute, who has some trouble recalling who is who.





	Muted memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mi723](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mi723/gifts).

> This is part of an artist/writer swap, Magehir expressed interest in both Mute/Smoke and Glaz/Fuze, so I ran with both and rolled it into a single fic.

The brush dipped into the dark brown paint before approaching the canvas. Glaz stopped his hand before applying it to the piece he was creating, a frown appearing in his face. Was that the right shade? He was almost certain it should be darker. Checking the reference photography again, he decided that it was the correct hue after all.

Portraits were not Glaz’s favourite medium of expression, especially when he was copying a photography, but he was doing this as a favour for a friend. Therefore, he would make sure the final result was the best one possible. He painted the strands of hair with small strokes of the brush, capturing the messy state of that person’s hairstyle. It was interesting to see these three people together, even if it was just in a picture, since Glaz would have never guessed they could look so  _ domestic  _ together.

His phone buzzed, the vibrations spreading through his leg. Glaz left the pallette aside and cleaned his hands in a rag before fishing the phone out of the pocket. It was a message from Finka.

_ Lera - 15:42   
_ _ Come to the infirmary, NOW.  _

With a sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach, Glaz quickly put away his paints and brushes, then ran off to the medical wing of the base. The closer he got to Doc’s domains, the louder the scream could be hard, muffled as they were by the massive door. So not an injury, most probably, but Fuze getting into a heated argument with someone. He hoped it hadn’t escalated enough to land them in Doc’s care, because then Fuze wouldn’t be getting much sympathy from him.

Sighing and mentally preparing himself for whatever was going on, the sniper pushed the door open and went into the waiting room next to Doc’s office. The scene unfolding in front of his eyes looked like the prelude to a bar fight. Fuze and Ying were facing each other, looking like they wished the other to drop dead, and the rest of operators had gravitated closer to one or other of the contenders. Finka, Jäger and Caveira stood next to Fuze, while Ying had the backing of Thatcher, Twitch and Frost.

“... reckless, and a liability to the team!” Ying had taken half a step forward, and was glaring daggers at Fuze. 

“Are you dumb? I already said it. Was. An. Accident,” Fuze dragged out the words slow and disdainful, with his fist tightly clenched by his sides. Twitch was trying to calm down Ying, pleading with her to let it go, while Frost threw a poisonous look at Fuze. Caveira was watching the events unfold like it was a tennis match.

“It was my fault,” Jäger mumbled, wringing his hands. “I forgot to set down one of my magpies in their room.”

Nobody heard Jäger, since at that moment Ying started once more disparaging Fuze’s gadget of choice, and Glaz saw Finka and Thatcher share a look of tired desperation. It wasn’t the first time these two had this argument, and it always ended in a shouting match. 

Glaz decided to put an end to it now. “The training version of the Matryoshka is mostly harmless, Siu.”

“Typical. You don’t even know what happened, but of course you rush to defend him!” Ying threw her hands up in the air, and Frost rolled her eyes. Glaz wasn’t sure if it was because of Ying’s dramatic streak or because she agreed. The Canadians and Spetsnaz had never gotten along very well, but usually they tried to put on a veneer of civility when interacting with each other. “Do you even care that because of his recklessness a teammate got injured? All because  _ Fuze _ didn’t follow Thatcher’s instructions.”

“I didn’t receive any message, the comms were dead!” Fuze replied at the same time Caveira mentioned Mute’s jammers blocking all signals.

Judging by everything he heard, this -whatever this was- had been just an unfortunate accident. It wasn’t the first time someone got hurt during training, nor it would be the last, and Glaz still didn’t understand why this incident sparked such a heated and bitter argument. The shouting reached a crescendo, and Doc emerged from one of the examination rooms.

“EVERYONE OUT!” Doc pointed at the double door, eyeing all the quarreling operators like a disappointed parent. “This is an infirmary, not a local pub for you to stage a brawl. Out. Now!”

Slowly, everyone shuffled out of the infirmary as ordered, some looking ashamed and others sullen like reprimanded kids. Glaz discreetly positioned himself between Fuze and Ying’s field of vision, and steered the Uzbek into a different direction, lest they started arguing again. He was dying of curiosity over the details of the incident, but didn’t ask a single question. Fuze would talk whenever he was ready.

_ _ _

Mute couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into this situation. All he knew was that he was lying down, in some sort of bed, possibly. The fluorescent lights disoriented and blinded him, and his vision wavered as he blinked to focus his gaze.

The pristine white walls and various pieces of equipment quickly clued him in about where he was. A hospital or infirmary. He racked his memory, trying to retrace his steps, but nothing was coming. Everything was foggy, memories as blurry as his vision had been when he first opened his eyes. His head hurt, a throbbing pain on the front of his skull. That was probably why he was here. Sitting up on the bed, Mute went to touch his forehead, trying to determine if the tight sensation when he moved were stitches as he suspected.

“You cracked your noggin pretty badly, babe. I wouldn’t go around poking it if I was you,” a voice said, and Mute nearly jumped out of his skin. There was a short guy leaning against the wall, looking at him in worry. He hadn’t even heard the guy come in. 

Mute observed him with curiosity. He wore a SAS uniform, it was clear they were teammates. For a second, Mute considered they might be friends, but that was ridiculous; he couldn’t even remember his name. The door swung open and a man in a white coat came in, face tight in anger. Mute hoped the doctor wasn’t angry at him, because he wasn’t in the mood of getting yelled. The doctor’s expression softened when looking at him, and Mute relaxed marginally. 

“Mark, you’re awake. Good. How are you feeling?” The man spoke with a French accent, which was strangely soothing.

“Like I was run over by a truck.” It was hard to speak, words slurring and taking forever to form full sentences. “What happened?”

“You were involved in a training accident, and got hit on the head by a piece of debris,” the doctor took out a small flashlight and pointed it at Mute’s eyes, causing him to blink in discomfort. “The cut on your forehead needed stitches and you show signs of a concussion, but if you get some rest and follow my instructions you’ll be fine in no time.”

What an excellent first impression he might have caused, getting conked out during training on his first day. The other SAS guy hovered at the edges of his vision, and Mute still didn’t understand why he was allowed to be there. He seemed to notice Mute’s staring and winked at him, confusing Mute even more.

“I’m going to make you a few questions,” the doctor kept talking, as if Mute didn’t know the procedure. It wasn’t the first time he had to visit the doctor’s office. Not this one, but well, in general. “Name and date of birth?”

“Mark Chandar. October 11, 1991.”

“It’s normal to have trouble remembering the accident itself. What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

Mute thought about it before answering, and finally settled on the first memory that didn’t give his brain the mental equivalent of a static noise. “Yesterday, when we met with that lady, Six. She introduced the different teams. You are part of the GIGN, right?”

His words were met with total silence, until the other SAS guy started laughing. “Oh, that was a good one! You almost got me.”

Mute observed him, how he was nearly doubled over and wheezing from laughter. What a buffoon. The doctor looked much more serious, if a little worried.

“That was almost two years ago,” Doc gently broke the news to Mute.

Two years. He was missing nearly two years worth of memories. Instead of the panic he had expected he would feel, Mute was oddly calm. Unlike his SAS teammate, who, as soon as he realized this wasn’t a joke, started to yell and ask Doc to do something. 

“Temporary amnesia is not unexpected after trauma to the head,” Doc explained for the second time, after he had been interrupted again by the other guy’s complaints. The doctor ignored him and turned towards Mute. “As I said, you need to rest. Your memories should slowly come back to you, give it time. If after a week or two nothing has changed, then we’ll do some additional tests.”

Mute nodded. It was reasonable, and Doc would know best. He kept quiet while the doctor told him he was free to go and that he needed rest but couldn’t fall asleep yet, plus instructions to keep his stitches clean. However, he was barely paying attention to Doc. Instead, he couldn’t stop looking at his SAS teammate, who looked extremely unhappy with the situation. Why did he care so much anyway? He wasn’t the one with a hole in his memories.

_ 

Everything around him made Mute feel a stranger in his own room. He had no memories of this space, nor did he know where things were. The small touches of decoration were unfamiliar to him, except for a photograph of his family resting on the desk. It was from when he graduated from Cambridge, and thank goodness he still remembered that.

Mute had been more accepting of his situation in the sterile environment of the infirmary; now that he was confronted with the reality of the time and memories he lost, he was slowly spiralling into a quiet panic. When he saw the laptop on the bed, Mute made a beeline for it. If there was one thing he understood better than anything it was technology; and this was supposedly his personal laptop, he could gain some insight about what happened during those two years he was missing.

The computer was password protected, and Mute had a small meltdown when he realised he didn’t know the password. He tried guessing it, using logic and knowing what kind of dates he normally used when creating all his passwords. Nothing worked. Fighting to keep calm, Mute closed the laptop and set it harshly on the desk. Was he even the same person he had been before, or was Mute now an impostor living another man’s life?

_ “You always expect too much of yourself.” _

The words rose up unbidden in his mind, and Mute was almost certain that was something he heard  _ before _ , something a woman said to him… Trying to remember was like scratching a ghost limb, useless and maddening, always feeling it was within grasp until he tried to seize it. Defeated, Mute sank into the bed, looking at the ceiling. The only face he remembered clearly was the one from the teammate who accompanied him from the infirmary, and Mute didn’t even know his name.

The sorter guy -who Mute mentally called ‘Cocky’ for lack of a better name- had walked next to Mute in silence for a grand total of three minutes, more or less.

“So you don’t remember anything? At all?”

Technically, not true, but Mute didn’t see the point in arguing right now. His head hurt and he missed the silence from moments ago.

“Okay, so the tall one who looks like Mr. Clean? That’s our teammate Seamus. He has a very cute dog who is in fact a devil in disguise. The old geezer is Kaid, pretty quiet, but you liked that about him; better than have him nagging to be honest. The baby face over there is Rook. I think you guys are friends? Or maybe he’s just too stubborn and friendly to give up, sometimes it seems he wants to be in everyone’s good graces. And this one is…”

Mute stopped paying attention, too much information at once. Usually he was good at handling large amounts of new data, but this was overwhelming, his head hurt horribly and the stitches on his forehead itched like mad. At least he managed to retain a few names and faces, along with the path they were taking. When they arrived in front of what Mute assumed was his room’s door, he relaxed marginally. He wanted to rest, and most of all, some peace and quiet.

“Now babe, do you want us to get reacquainted?”

Perhaps it was the pet name, or maybe his infuriating smirk; whatever the reason, Mute found himself irritated beyond words. He got into the room and closed the door on his teammate’s face. Not the most diplomatic answer, but Mute would do it again. Although, for some reason, he couldn’t get out of his mind the flash of hurt that crossed the guy’s face. 

Mute didn’t know why that small reaction bothered him so much, he didn’t even know the shorter guy’s name.

_ _ _

Despite Glaz’s best efforts, Fuze kept tight-lipped and sullen through their very one sided conversation. He also declined the invitation to go to the firing range, citing he had work to do. Glaz was sorely tempted to call that for what it was: bullshit. Fuze only wanted an excuse to seclude himself away and deny he was upset.

Instead, he asked, “Would it interfere with your work if I came with you? I have nothing else to do.”

On another occasion, the curt nod would barely qualify as an answer, but at least Fuze hadn’t outright refused. Usually he tried to isolate himself when he was in one of his dark moods. And while Glaz always prided himself on being observant, he knew the amount of details he noticed about Fuze surpassed whatever he knew of everyone else in the base. 

The workshop was empty except for Nokk and Mira, who were quietly talking in a corner, heads almost bumping against each other as they examined whatever was on the table. Fuze settled on his usual spot and started to disassemble one of his cluster charges in complete silence. Not surprising, taking into account what happened today. Even if the version Fuze used for training had the explosive might, at most, of a firecracker, he supposed running some additional tests would not hurt.

Watching Fuze work was fascinating, the way he confidently took apart his gadget, how he left the pieces in a certain order, his cute little frown when he couldn’t find the exact tool he was looking for. At first Glaz drew some of the components Fuze laid on the table, but soon he was sketching the Uzbek as he worked. At some point, Nokk and Mira left, two figures Glaz saw by the corner of his eyes while he was busy admiring Fuze. To draw him accurately, of course. It would be a travesty to not capture all his grace when doing precise work like this.

Thanks to how closely Glaz was observing him, he quickly noticed when Fuze stopped tinkering with the gadget and instead looked vacantly ahead. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t understand how this,” -he gestured at the disassembled cluster charge- “could make part of the ceiling fall down.” Fuze then turned around to look at him, as if Glaz could provide him with an answer.

Ah, so that was what happened. “It was just an accident, Shuhrat. It’s not your fault a piece of that old ceiling fell and nearly turned Mark into a human pancake.”

Fuze made a disbelieving snort, and still had that mulish look about him, the one that told Glaz he was ready to keep testing his cluster charges until he couldn’t see straight. Because he wanted to be above reproach. Because Ying’s accusations and the sliver of doubt on people’s eyes hurt. Glaz could go hoarse reassuring Fuze and making him see reason, and it still wouldn’t change a thing. So he tried something different.

“Are you hungry? I’ve been craving something sweet all day.” 

“What?” There was a small moment where Glaz saw Fuze licking his lips and considered going in for a kiss. Luckily he reigned in his ill-timed instincts. “Do you want me to bake? Now?”

“Please? You make the best baklava. And Maxim and Sasha are on a mission, we can send them pictures of us eating all the baklava and wait for their outraged messages.”

That got a small chuckle out of Fuze, and after a second of hesitation, he nodded and put all the tools and mechanical pieces away. Glaz was inordinately pleased by how easy that had been. Perhaps he had miscalculated how tired Fuze was of dismantling and analyzing his gadget, or perhaps he misjudged how willing Fuze was to drop everything to do him a favor. It was much more pleasing to imagine the second option was the answer, but Glaz suspected it was a mix of both. No matter the reason, it worked. And while it was true he had been craving something for days, it wasn’t baklava.

_ _ _

The phone lay innocently in the bedside table, Mute not daring to pick it up again. There was so much information he needed to digest, and yet part of him craved to know more.

Finding the phone had been a flash of joy, until it sparked a small bout of panic. For all intents and purposes, it would be like snooping through a stranger’s phone. Mute wasn’t sure he wanted to invade his own privacy like that, but he supposed it was inevitable and even necessary.

The lock screen image was him and three other guys, all dressed in the same gear. He supposed they were his SAS teammates; Mute recognised two of them from having seen them today, although he only remembered the bald one was called Seamus. Unlocking the phone was easy, just a swipe on the screen and that was it. Mute expected more of his future self, some kind of security measure to keep anyone from doing what he just did. 

With the phone unlocked, the first thing Mute did was to check his emails. All work related, as expected. Good to see that hadn’t changed. Next, he hesitated between checking the camera roll or the messaging history. He decided to check the latter, since it could provide more information than just some pictures. The last message received was from someone called Manu, and the profile picture showed a pretty brunette. He was almost sure this was the person who usually berated him for demanding too much of himself, he could even read the message in her voice.

_ “I know you’re up to something with Timur 👀 Is it related to the anniversary plan?” _

Anniversary? 

Mute re-read the message several times, and every time he reached the same conclusion. That was surprising, he didn’t expect to find he had a partner he couldn’t remember. He immediately went to search his messaging history with Timur, but it was sparse. The messages weren’t very personal, the conversations brief and usually related to work or other teammates. He supposed they preferred to talk face to face, and the unimportant stuff was left for quick messages. Still, part of Mute was slightly disappointed, he had hoped to learn more about his supposed boyfriend before facing him for real. Speaking of which, why hadn’t this Timur come to visit him yet? If one thing was sure in any base, was that rumors ran at the speed of light, and by now everyone would know about Mute’s accident. Perhaps he was out, on an operation, and that’s why he hadn’t contacted with Mute yet.

Looking at the rest of contacts, a name grabbed his attention. James. He was drawn to it, unable to explain why. There were a lot more messages here than there had been with the other two contacts, this guy was someone with whom Mute had a lot of conversations apparently. A friend. Mute sank against his pillow and started reading. He wanted to know more about this friend of his; perhaps he might even remember something along the way. Besides, he still had plenty of time until dinner time, and nothing else to do.

Hours later, he was still scrolling through his conversations with James. The sun went down and the sky turned ink dark, and Mute didn’t notice. He was completely swept away by what he was reading. It was fascinating, seeing how their friendship had evolved, drawing information about James, and about himself too. Mute could scarcely believe he could not remember any of this: he chuckled at the terrible chemistry jokes and outlandish memes James sent him, got irritated by all the stuff he apparently borrowed from him, became curious about the glimpses of a project they worked on together, and he felt strangely affected by the messages James sent one day at 2 am when his daughter caught pneumonia and had to stay at the hospital for a night.

How it was possible to feel so close to a person he hadn’t met yet face to face? Mute now had a more solid grasp on James’ character than on his boyfriend’s. He checked their profile pictures again, but James only had a gas mask. A shame, Mute was curious to know if he had crossed paths with him today. He was about to continue reading his conversations with James, when there was a knock on the door.

Without waiting for an answer, a tall and bald guy came in.  _ The one who looks like Mr. Clean, Seamus _ . The corners of Mute’s lips twitched upwards in a fleeting smile. Perhaps the rapid-fire chatter and info-dump of that dude had been more useful -and funnier- than he thought at first. Seamus carried in his hands something wrapped in aluminium foil.

“You didn’t come down to dinner, lad. Thought you’d be hungry.” Seamus left the aluminium wrapped parcel on the nearest table, and judging by the shape Mute would wagger it was a sandwich. “How are you feeling?”

“Memory’s still all jumbled up,” Mute shrugged, not knowing how to explain the kind of confusion that had taken over him since he woke on the infirmary. Then, nervousness spiking up, he asked, “Have you seen James?”

“He went home, with his daughter.”

Right, that made sense. Mute nodded, feeling stupid for asking such an obvious question. “And Timur?”

“Spent all day with Shuhrat,” Seamus replied, “you know the Russians all seem attached to each other’s hip. I don’t know how they haven’t driven each other mad yet.”

A sudden silence stretched between them after that, although Seamus didn’t seem to find it awkward. If they were teammates, he probably was used to these silences. Thankfully, Seamus didn’t linger much, and Mute was soon alone again. He had much information to analyse and, while Seamus was friendly enough, Mute preferred to be alone until he didn’t feel so lost anymore.

So apparently his boyfriend was Russian. And spent more time with his squad mates than with Mute. In all honesty, he probably should be more upset at that than he really was. Instead, Mute couldn’t help but wonder about James’ family life. He had a daughter, Charlie, but no mention of a spouse in any of the messages he read. Most curious.

_ _ _

Glaz had lost the notion of time, the passing of the hours became irrelevant when he painted. It was only him, the emerging art on the canvas, and the meticulous way he planned and sketched and painted everything, down to the smallest detail. He would say this one was done, for the most part. A good look next morning would probably reveal some mistake or oversight he would have to fix, but aside from that the piece was finished.

In the deep silence of the night, it was easy to pick up the sound of a door opening and footsteps coming closer. “What are you doing still awake?”

Giving Fuze a pointed look, Glaz deduced his friend had at least been sleeping until recently, if the dishevelled appearance and half-closed eyes were any indication. The Uzbek was downright adorable in this sleepy state, perhaps he should paint him next. That was one portrait Glaz wouldn’t mind doing.

“I wanted to finish this, Mark wanted it as an anniversary gift.”

Fuze observed the painting with interest, seemingly conflicted by the scene it depicted. Mute and Smoke were sitting on a sandy beach, with the sea behind them. Mute used his height advantage to drape himself over Smoke, who clearly didn’t mind as he was smiling brightly. A teenager who could only be Smoke’s daughter was on the left side of the image, in the process of launching herself to tackle the happy couple. It was a vibrant scene, bright and full of energy.

“Do you approve of their relationship?”

That was a loaded question. Glaz winced, busying himself in cleaning his brushes, hoping to gain some time. The sniper wished he could read Fuze’s intention better, but his voice had been carefully blank, like his expression.

“Things here aren’t like they were back home,” was what Glaz eventually answered. Then, after a heartbeat, he whispered, “And they are happy.”

His answer made Fuze blink, a contemplative expression crossing his handsome face. “And you? Would you… Are you happy?”

What the hell, where was this coming from? Fuze didn’t look so sleepy anymore, watching Glaz’s every movement with interest.

“Reasonably so,” Glaz laughed, and his nonchalance was only a tiny bit forced. “As everything in life, could be improved, but I can’t complain.”

None said anything else after that, Glaz putting the brushes away while Fuze stared. It was clear the Uzbek didn’t know what to do or what to reply now. The longer the silence went on, the higher the tension seemed to grow. He could tell there was something Fuze wanted to say, or ask, something the Uzbek didn’t dare speak about in broad daylight. However, Glaz would rather not speak about it. Words were never his strongest suit, Fuze was easy to anger, and all of the Spetsnaz valued action over words. Therefore, Glaz had a much better -or worse- idea than just drop hints and hope Fuze was on the same page he was.

He took a step forward, heart beating madly as he got closer to Fuze. This could be a horrible mistake, but a sleep-deprived Glaz was an impulsive Glaz, and at the moment the potential reward surpassed by far any other considerations. He pressed his lips against Fuze’s in a light kiss, the contact almost hesitant. Glaz was prepared to back down at any moment, he knew he was overstepping all boundaries here. However, instead of pushing him away in disgust, Fuze made a strangled noise of unadulterated want before kissing back. It was like a soft summer rain after a drought, and Glaz greedily took it all, molding his body against Fuze’s, chasing his lips and drowning in giddiness.

Perhaps Glaz should amend his previous statement about happiness. Some moments were already perfect and could not be improved. This kiss was proof enough.

_ _ _

Morning brought no sudden clarity or revelation as Mute had secretly hoped. Last night, he fell into a dreamless sleep while browsing through his messaging history with James. The phone was lost between the sheets, and when Mute eventually found it, he realised the battery died out during the night.

After a quick shower, Mute felt full of energy and ready to face the day, until he remembered he was still off duty. He had a follow up visit with Doc later today, but aside from that, he had nothing to do but sit on his bum all day. Literally. Damn, he was going to die of boredom. Perhaps he could swing by the workshop, poke around to see what he had been working on before his accident. But first he wanted to grab a cup of tea.

The kitchen was nearly empty, Mute supposed most people had woken earlier and were now training, except for one person who had the same idea as Mute and sat on the countertop, sipping his tea. It was the guy from yesterday, the one who was with him in the infirmary. He still couldn’t remember his name or anything. Mute sighed and busied himself preparing his cup of tea, ignoring his teammate. Except either he didn’t want to be ignored, or he didn’t know how to keep quiet for long. Remembering yesterday, Mute would wagger it was the second option.

“Being banned from training sucks, right? I only have some bruises, I still can hold my weapons.”

“Then why did you come?”

If he considered Mute’s question rude, he didn’t say. Instead, he looked intently at Mute before offering a half-hearted shrug. “I wanted to work on my toxic babes, I guess.”

It felt like someone punched Mute, memories of a thick yellow fog coming back to him, and the person calling those illegal and deadly bombs his babes. This guy who couldn’t keep his mouth shut was none other than James. Fuck. To be honest, Mute wasn’t too surprised, he was mostly mad at himself for not realising sooner. That damned  _ ‘babe’  _ was the most obvious clue, and James’ messages had been full of that term too, but Mute hadn’t connected the pieces yesterday.

“Hey, are you okay? You look white as a ghost,” Smoke brought his hand up to Mute’s shoulder, such a small gesture, but it was more comforting than he could express. It also highlighted something different in Smoke’s hand.

“I didn’t know you painted your nails, James.”

“It was Charlie’s idea, she wanted to cheer me up and…” Smoke trailed off mid-sentence, a hopeful expression blooming on his face. “Wait, you remember who I am?”

“For the most part.”

Smoke was openly grinning now, as if he received the best news of the day. He leaned in closer and for a second Mute thought he was going for a kiss.

“I have a boyfriend,” his feeble protest came out more as a question than real opposition, and Smoke merely smirked.

“Yeah, I know.”

He looked like such a troublemaker with that expression, and Mute’s heart skipped a beat when the hand on his shoulder squeezed harder, bringing him closer to Smoke. The brush of James’ lips against his was electric, and Mute  _ wanted  _ to give in, but he couldn’t.

Pushing Smoke away, he wheezed “It wouldn’t be fair for either of us.” 

Mute took another step back, and then he was fleeing from the room, leaving a confused Smoke behind. What the hell was going on with his life. Was he cheating on his boyfriend? He hoped not, as tempting as it had been in that moment, Mute would be severely disappointed with himself if he turned out to be that kind of person.

Walking blindly around, Mute stumbled upon his so-called boyfriend and one of his teammates. Nothing strange in being friends with a teammate, far from it, but they way they were looking at each other spoke of something deeper than just work friends. The two Russians stopped to greet him, and while one -Mute assumed this was Timur- looked reasonably pleased, the other guy avoided to look at him in the eye. Why did he look so guilty, Mute had no idea, and honestly, at this point he didn’t care.

“We need to talk,” Mute would rather not have to talk, not when his memories had more holes than a strainer. But he couldn’t carry on like this, guessing what his life had been like. No, it was better to have solid answers, even if the conversation would surely be awkward. There was no easy way to tell your partner you didn’t remember a thing about him or your relationship. Or that he was more attracted to another teammate.

“I expected as much,” Timur replied, nodding at the other guy. Like an obedient pet, he followed the unspoken request and left silently. It was the first time Mute found someone who talked even less than him.

He followed Timur to some corner of the base he wasn’t familiar with, although that description fit most of the building right now. While they walked, Mute mentally rehearsed what he wanted to say, hoping it wouldn’t feel as awkward as he thought it was. However, once they reached their destination, Mute didn’t have the chance to speak.

“I finished it already, it was easier than I imagined,” Timur explained, and Mute nodded along as if he knew what was going on. “If you want me to change anything, tell me so I can get it done before the anniversary.”

What the…? Timur uncovered the easel next to him, a sort of dramatic reveal that left Mute with his mouth open. The painting was beautiful, but he was more interested in the subjects depicted. Himself, James, and Charlie. Mute remembered some flashes from that day of their summer vacation. That had been just a few months ago.

“We’re not together,” relief shone through Mute’s words, he finally got some memories back, or at least pieces of them. And it made a lot more sense than the assumptions he’d been working with until now.

“Of course not?” Timur was looking at him like Mute had lost his mind, then he laughed. “Oh please, tell me you didn’t tell anyone that we…”

It was heartening that he was taking it so well, although Mute would prefer if Timur wasn’t laughing at him. His face might have been hilarious, since the Russian snickered louder after trying to say something to him. At last, he calmed down enough to talk.

“I’m sorry Mark, it’s just so ridiculous. You and James are,” Timur paused, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know how to describe it, you just make sense together.”

And they, him and Timur, didn’t. At least not in that way; although he would be happy to call the Russian his friend. Now he had to fix the mess he made with Smoke, no doubt he would be highly confused about why Mute kept pushing him aside.

“The workshop is on the top floor?” Mute asked, proud that he had remembered such detail.

“Not since the renovations from a year ago.” Oh great, he would be mixing stuff from before and after the base renovation, just what he needed. At least the Russian didn’t seem to mind the abrupt change in their conversation.

Mute decided he would just explore the base until he found the workshop, get reacquainted with the layout of the building. Before going away, he poked his head back into the room and told Timur the painting was amazing, because it truly was. Besides, Mute would always be grateful it for how it shook his memories loose, it was more than hundreds of texts had done.

It took Mute nearly twenty minutes to find the workshop, since the base was huge and he had no idea where he was going. Smoke wasn’t alone, but the blonde woman didn’t even look up from whatever she was doing when Mute came in. Unlike Smoke, who pretended like he hadn’t noticed, even if Mute had clearly seen him gazing this way. Something about the bench he was working on was familiar to Mute. It was the kind of spot he would have chosen, on a corner of the room, away from everyone else.

After about four seconds of observing him tinker with something that looked like a remote detonator, Mute felt the need to point out something. “That doesn’t seem very efficient.” 

“I know what I’m doing,” Smoke waved away his comment, then looked at him. “Do you even remember how to hold a screwdriver?”

Mute blanched; not because of the comment in itself, but because of something he hadn’t considered until now. How could he be sure he hadn’t forgotten any of his engineering knowledge? He thought he didn’t, but he couldn’t be sure. And anything he learnt during the last two years was surely out of his grasp. Only one way to know.

“I’m sure I know how to handle a  _ screwdriver _ ,” the emphasis on the last word had Smoke snickering. Mute rolled his eyes, “I could handle your tool too, but that’s besides the point.”

“Would you look at that, it’s almost like you’re back to being you, babe. And you haven’t run away yet this time, that’s a record.”

He heard the unspoken  _ ‘I missed you’ _ as clearly as if it had been said aloud, and nodded. “This morning I remembered our vacation this summer.”

“Is that why you came to ask  _ screwdriver  _ holding lessons?” Smoke wiggled his eyebrows at him, and Mute was torn between rolling his eyes and allowing himself to smile over his boyfriend’s antics. “Go on, impress me.”

Falling into this playful kind of teasing felt so achingly familiar that it was impossible for Mute to hide his smile. He snatched the remote detonator from under Smoke’s hands and started to point out what changed he would introduce. The more he talked, the more confident Mute was, and not just about his engineering knowledge. He might not remember much yet, but things were starting to make sense.

For the first time since he woke up in the infirmary, Mute didn’t feel lost. He just found his anchor, and although Smoke was fond of making terrible innuendo and talked way too much, Mute didn’t know what he would do without him. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can see what I'm currently up to on [my tumblr](http://r6shippingdelivery.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
